


On a Clear Day, I Can See Forever

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, there is the winter, and after the winter, come the spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Clear Day, I Can See Forever

* * *

London

The day that Sherlock Holmes is buried is also the day that Greg Lestrade loses his job. 

It isn't a surprise, really, he thinks, as he packs his personal items from the office into a box that once held copier paper. The day was bound to come. His DCI was adamant about involving amateurs, and with all the negative press, even the commissioner was catching hell from the Powers that Be. And it was natural that he would end up being the sacrificial lamb. He'd done what he could to protect Donovan, for all the good that had done them.

Of course he'd been hoping to be demoted – he could stand being DS Greg Lestrade again. Or back on the street. Constable Lestrade, if he had to. But no, six years of association with Sherlock had to be paid for. And the price was his job. 

Donovan sticks her head around the door to his office. Former office. He's managed to have worked some sort of deal with the DCI for her and Anderson, only a reprimand. Fair enough. Hers was the voice of reason. He reminds himself that while the Yard isn't necessarily a talent show, and it really is all about whom you know and what you say, there are times when you can still protect your own – and he honestly believes that she thinks she's right.

"All right?" Greg forces himself to ask. 

"Yeah," Donovan answers, looking everywhere but at him. "I just came to say… that if you need anything, you know, that…"

It's too much all of a sudden. Greg slams his coffee mug into the box, making a crack in it that he doesn't notice until later when he tries to pour himself a morning cup the next day, and scoops up some paperclips and throws them in there for good measure. 

"Yeah, thanks for that _Donovan_ ," he snaps. "I think you've done enough already." He snatches up the box and shoulders his way out of the office. It's not fair, he thinks, to shout at her, but it's what he's doing, making her the target. Deserved or not. 

"Sir… Greg…" Donovan says. "I just wanted to let you know, we're having a bit of a booze up down the pub. To see you off. To thank you. Anderson said…"

"Yeah, well, enjoy one for me, will you?" Greg says. "I'd rather not have to sit round the table at the last supper."

"Sir, I didn't mean… we didn't mean. We didn't… It wasn't supposed to…"

Greg doesn't want to hear the last of her speech. Her apology. Whatever it was supposed to be. He takes the stairs down to his car, the slam of the fire door a satisfying coda to his career.

London traffic, of course, makes certain that he doesn't get away from the Yard nearly fast enough; mostly because the press are still all over him. Because of course the headline, _Fake Genius' Pet Copper Sacked_ , will be an absolutely perfect clipping for his mum to put up in her kitchen. It's all Greg can do not to commit vehicular homicide as he crawls through the throngs of press. 

Thankfully, they do not follow him home. Which is just fine with him because he has a date with a rather attractive bottle of whisky sent him by Mycroft Holmes with a terse note thanking him for "assisting in the care of his late brother."

There is also a message on his voicemail from Steven Smith out in Fitton, an old mate: 

_Greg! Listen, heard you might be in a bit of trouble, job-wise. Turns out that I have a slot open on the Fitton force if you're interested. Won't be all glamour and glitz, the way London is, but hey, that might be a nice change for you. Give me a call._

Greg wonders if Mycroft had anything to do with that – he hadn't thought about old Steve for years. Probably not, though, the fact that he'd been sacked in disgrace was all over the papers. And Steve was a good man, and a mate. It would make sense for him to offer his washed up friend some help. 

Mycroft, it seemed, was, good primarily for supplying booze; and the occasional terrifying encounter with a rabid dog and a government conspiracy gone awry. At least the booze was good, Greg thought as he knocked back another glass and then decided to eschew the civilities of things like glasses for taking pulls straight out of the bottle and wondering how John was coping. 

Because he is determined not to think about what happened before Dartmoor. Showing up at the Diogenes Club, the silence, the confrontation, the meeting – and something Greg would _really_ rather not remember right now. He came home to discover that Ann had moved out and so he'd booked himself off a week and spent it on the coast of Spain in a villa that Mycroft had provided. The fact that Mycroft came round at the end of the week was… problematic. Thinking about it now, Greg reckoned, only made it more of an issue. 

Because you really shouldn't be sitting alone in your flat after you've left the only job you've ever wanted with a bottle of whisky remembering how you almost, but not quite, fucked the brother of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Fitton

It's raining, of course. First day back on the street and it's bucketing down. Greg remembers, too late, that he's always hated days like these. On the other hand, he thinks, as he approaches the battered van with "Icarus Removals" painted on the side, it's probably raining inside his dingy attic bedsit, too. And, like the rain, the bedsit's temporary. All he needs is a few more paychecks and a few less support payments.

The "Icarus Removals" van is parked illegally on the double yellow line, and although usually the Parking Authority would handle it, Greg's really, _really_ bored. He'd forgotten about that aspect of the street, too. Those quiet days where you have to stay alert, but nothing ever happens. He also remembers that he should probably be thankful for the boredom. Just a little.

He crouches beneath the overhang of the dingy house and scribbles his ticket. As he's putting it in its little plastic baggie beneath the windshield wiper, there's an anguished shout and a man in a pilot's uniform comes running up the street.

"Wait, no, please, oh, no!"

Greg turns and sighs. Of course the owner would come upon him _just now_. Although, it _is_ a bit strange – why would a pilot be worried over a manky old van like this? And what was he doing in this neighborhood anyway, so close to the Agricultural College?

"Please, no, I'm sorry – I'll move it, I just got in, and… you don't understand, I'm an airline captain, and I was on standby and the client called and…" Excuses pour from the pilot's mouth as he hurries up the hill and nearly slips and falls on the slick pavement. It's only the bonnet of the van that saves him from completely wiping out, but Greg's not paying attention.

Because he's staring at Sherlock Holmes.

"You…" The world suddenly narrows to a pinpoint and then widens. Dark spots gather in front of Greg's eyes and everything tilts forward. The next thing he knows, he's crouched on the pavement beside the van, in the pouring rain, his head between his knees, water dripping down the back of his neck while Sherlock – but not Sherlock – is babbling worriedly at him.

Greg tilts his head back to the sky, the cool rain soothing, just a bit, and as he straightens dares to open his eyes.

It isn't Sherlock. Thank God. Although he does look a great deal like him, the pilot and owner of the van is ginger-haired, with a red face and a look of perpetual worry. Not-Sherlock is crouching beside him, holding out his hand.

"Maybe you should come inside," he's saying. Greg nods, carefully, and grasps the proffered hand. Getting up induces another bout of vertigo, but Not-Sherlock manages to steer him into the house, and onto a battered sofa with busted springs.

"I'll just… cup of tea," Not-Sherlock says and disappears as Greg rubs his hands over his face and tries to make sense of the last five minutes. It works briefly and then Not-Sherlock comes in again.

"I'm … Captain Crieff, Captain Martin Crieff, Captain, Martin…" Not-Sherlock says, holding out a mug. "That is, I'm an airline captain and my name's Martin Crieff."

"I see." The mug is warm and the tea smells wonderful. Not like the usual bags of dust that he's been buying lately. Almost like the tea that Mycroft used to serve him when… No. Not now. "And that's your illegally parked van out there?" Greg asks.

"Erm…yes," Martin replies. "I parked in front of the house to help Sophie move her bureau into her room, and then Carolyn called, my boss, and said that the client had called and why wasn't I at the airfield. But of course, at that moment, the van broke down, so I couldn't drive to the airfield and I had to call Douglas, who picked me up. But when we got to the airfield, Carolyn said that the client had cancelled, and so we weren't flying today anyway, and to go away immediately. So we did and Douglas very kindly drove me as far as the Man with No Head at the end of the street, and by then, of course, it was raining, and you were writing your citation and…"

It's by far, the longest, most detailed summary that Greg's heard in a while. Well, okay, that he's heard since Sherlock, be honest. But instead of the scenery chewing extravagance, this speech is delivered as Martin is alternating between fidgeting in the armchair across from Greg and darting nervous glances at him.

"All right, all right," Greg interrupts. "Fine, whatever." He takes a sip of tea and his eyes _nearly_ roll back in his head; it's that good. "Just move the van and I won't issue the citation. I should be going, anyway."

The relief that floods Not-Sherlock – Martin's – face is almost embarrassing to see.

"Oh, _thank you_ ," he gasps, and springs to his feet.

Greg stands (carefully) and, with real regret, puts the mug down.

"I'll help you push it round the corner," he says.

As they labor over the van – pushing it around the corner to the designated parking area – Greg asks, "So, where's the best boozer?" If anybody knows, it's bound to be a pilot, right?

"Oh, erm… depends on where you live," Martin answers. "I usually go to the Man with No Head when I'm not… erm… working and when I have… money, which… well, honestly, isn't very often."

"Really?" Greg asks. "You're an airline captain. How can you not…"

"Yeah, well," Martin says, turning bright red. "I don't get paid, do I? Carolyn pays the other pilots – that is, Douglas. But she doesn't pay me. My job, how I make my money, is humping boxes with my dad's old van. The uniform, the flying, that's actually my hobby, thanks so much for asking."

"Oh, I… Look, I'm sorry," Greg offers, wiping the rain out of his eyes.

"No, it's not your fault," Martin answers. "It's just all I've ever wanted to be was an airline pilot, and I'm _this_ close to being a real one, but… really, I'm just an amateur, and it's so hard to convince people that I _can_ do this job, because they look at Douglas and they don't see… It's like I do the work, all the work, and I still have to work twice as hard to do what Douglas seems to do so easily. Do you know?"

Greg knows. Because he's lived every day for the last six years, up until ten horrible weeks ago, with that precise feeling. And here are the very words he's… well, okay, he's never thought them _exactly_ , but he's certainly felt them, the very words that he's always had floating in his head being spoken by a man who looks more like Sherlock's brother than Mycroft does.

"Look," he says holding out his hand. "My name's Greg. I get off at six, if you're free, would you like to have a pint with me down the Man with No Head?"

It's madness, really, probably a breach of all kinds of codes of conduct, but there's something about Martin (Not-Sherlock) that makes Greg want to _smile_.

Martin's look of dumb gratitude is almost overwhelming. And then he turns bright red again.

"Greg, erm… you should know," he mutters. "I'm not…"

"Oh, no, God, no," Greg says. "A pint, two blokes, friends, not… not that."

"Oh, erm... sorry, I thought, I didn't…"

"No, no, it's all right. Really." Greg's not about to discuss his sexuality with a bloke (even with Not-Sherlock) the first time he's met him. And anyway, it's not really a subject for debate. On his way to what appears to be a nasty divorce, a disastrous one-night stand with Molly Hooper – neither of them could really – well, they were both drunk, that's Greg's excuse at least – and a ridiculous nagging sensation that Mycroft Holmes would be a good shag. None of those things were things he was about to bring up with a man he'd just met. Comfort in his own bisexuality is one thing. Coming out and admitting he's an absolute fuck-up when it comes to relationships – and well, he supposes, sex – is another thing entirely.

"Oh," says Martin. "Well, yes, I would like to have a-a- pint with you this evening at the Man with No Head."

"Right. Well. See you then," says Greg.

"See you," replies Martin.

As Greg walks away, up the street to the top of the hill, the rain gusts down even harder, but he can't help but feel that he's made his first friend. But he also can't help but wonder what Sherlock would have made of him.

* * *

Fitton

The drinks go rather well, actually – Martin's not at all like Sherlock, Greg's relieved to discover. He's just an ordinary bloke with a righteous string of bad luck: wrong height, unfortunate hair color, a tendency to panic and then dig his heels in, and a horrible way with women.

Greg has his suspicions about the last one – he knows from rather painful experience that there are some very deep closets in the world, and it appears that Martin is in one of them. He wonders if Martin realizes it. Then he catches sight of Martin not-so-surreptitiously checking him out (and turning bright red) and another piece of the Martin-puzzle falls into place. 

Greg firmly tells himself "no." That it's too soon after his divorce, too soon after _Sherlock_ , too soon, too soon, too soon. But when he sees Martin's shy smile over a second round, there's a rush of heat to his stomach that is anything but restrained. 

Greg's always been comfortable being bisexual – he prefers men, but ten years of on-again, off-again marriage have given him a certain reluctance to flirt openly. 

If only he could get the image of Martin, biting his lip and blushing (like he's doing now, actually), out of his head, where it's enhanced by the image of Martin stretched out underneath him, sweaty and sticky and sated.

_Woah. Where the hell did that come from?_

Greg stares down at his pint. Around them the chatter of the pub seems to ebb and flow. 

"Greg, are you… are you okay?" Martin asks.

"Huh? Oh yeah, sorry. Miles away," Greg says with a smile. "I was just thinking…"

"It must be dull here, for you – cop coming from the big city, writing parking tickets."

"Oh, it's not all _that_ dull here," Greg counters. "I mean… I've met you – made a friend, I hope?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. Yes. Yes…" Martin's really blushing now and Greg can't take his eyes off of him. He's always liked the larger-than-life types, been the sensible one (see: his marriage to Ann and his disastrous three month shag-a-thon with Sherlock), but there's something about Martin that strikes a protective chord in Greg. 

They part not long after, Greg to his flat and Martin to his house full of students. Greg can't imagine being an adult living like that, but as he looks around his flat, still with its half unpacked boxes and breakfast dishes with cornflakes now cemented to the bowls, it seems that, at least, it would be _companionable_.

* * *

"All right, travelers, let's get down to it, shall we?" Carolyn bellows at them. They're all assembled, hunched over Arthur-made coffee (actually fairly drinkable this time) as Carolyn lays out the plan for the day in full voice. It's too bright in the portacabin (just as it's too bright outside) and Martin wishes he could just put his head down on the table and sleep. 

Martin flinches – he doesn't drink that much, as a rule, and he hadn't this time, but the cigars that Greg had thrust upon him outside the Man With No Head had taken their toll. They had been celebrating the finalization of Greg's divorce and Greg had certainly been in a – well, not exactly celebratory mood.

But he'd paid for the drinks and he and Martin had thrown a few darts, had a laugh or two, and Greg had quite decently walked Martin back up the road to his house, and the two men had stood outside for a bit, smoking the cigars and chatting like adults. Like friends. Through the fug of post-cigar and alcohol indulgence, Martin had felt … warm. Almost as if there had been more to the encounter than just two men being mates. 

"Birling Day is upon us once again, but this time, Douglas, I am taking no chances!" Carolyn is booming. 

"Oh, really, Carolyn?" Douglas drawls. "As I seem to recall, the last time round, you put Martin Crieff of St Mary Meade in charge. And we remember how well that turned out. Mr Birling got his whisky after all, _and_ Martin and I made quite a little packet out of it." 

"Yes, well." Carolyn flushes a bit and refuses to look at Martin. "This year, I am bringing in a _professional_. Because this year, you are not going to be giving the nasty old boy a heart attack upon his return to England. This year, I will not have the ambulances racing to Fitton air field while an enraged, drunken Welshman in the middle of a cardiac arrest hurls abuse at me!"

"Carolyn!" Martin protests, but it's feeble at best. 

"Oh, don't worry, Martin, your reputation as an ace crime fighter is still as it ever was. Just as your reputation as a paramedic," Carolyn chides. "No, gentlemen, this year, I have reinforcements."

"Is Phil from the fire-crew coming with us this time?" Arthur asks, bouncing on the sofa.

"Carolyn, _really_? You know that Phil is hardly a mastermind of criminal prevention," Douglas says.

"No, it is not _Phil_. It is, as I said, a professional crime-fighter who just happens to be on loan from the Fitton police department. And I'm expecting him any minute…"

As if on cue, the portacabin door opens and Greg's head pokes through. 

"Hello?" he asks. "MJN Air? Oh, hello, Martin. Thought this was your outfit."

Martin finds himself beaming. Greg looks unfairly good for the morning after a booze up, but maybe it's just because Greg looks _good_ in general. Not that he'd admit that to Greg, mind. Just as an… observation. 

"This," Carolyn states grandiosely, pulling open the door for Greg, "is Police Constable Gregory S Lestrade, formerly of New Scotland Yard, and now the pride of the Fitton force."

"New Scotland Yard!" exclaims Arthur. "Brilliant! Do you wear a kilt? And can you bring your bagpipes with you on the trip? Oh, and I bet you’re an Immortal too!"

"Arthur," Douglas asks. "Are you by any chance thinking of the movie 'Highlander'?"

"Yeah, maybe," Arthur admits. Then, turning to Greg, "Do you have a kilt?"

"'fraid not," says Greg with an easy grin that makes something tug in Martin's gut. "I'm not even really a Scotsman." Martin flashes a smile back at Greg.

Arthur's disappointment vanishes when he realizes that he's shaking hands with a real live police officer who one day might let him ride in the patrol car. 

"And what is in aid of, Carolyn?" Douglas asks, interrupting the flow of enthusiasm from Arthur. "Are you going to chain him to Mr Birling's Talisker?" He smiles. 

"No, but now that you mention it," Carolyn replies with a glint in her eye. "Greg, you do have handcuffs don't you?"

"I do, but…" Greg answers, a look of confusion crossing his face. Martin realizes with a sinking feeling just what Carolyn has in mind. 

"No buts. Douglas, Mr Birling is driving down and will be here any moment. If you have anything you need to do, to relieve yourself, anything at all, do it now. I have the Talisker, and it will not leave my sight, or Arthur's, until such time as Mr Birling manages to consume it all. You will, during the entire duration of the flight to Milan, be handcuffed to either Greg here, or the armrest of your seat. Martin, you operate out; Douglas, once the Talisker is safely in Mr Birling, you will operate back."

Martin is almost too busy totting up all the air-safety violations Carolyn is proposing to enjoy the look of horror on Douglas' face when he realizes just what he's in for. 

"But Mrs Knapp-Shappey," Greg interrupts. "I think that you've got the wrong end of the stick. I was given to understand that this would be a security job." 

"It is, Constable!" Carolyn cries. "This Talisker is worth over two hundred pounds. If it should fall into the wrong hands…"

"Yeah, but First Officer Richardson…"

"Call me Douglas," Douglas chimes in. "We're going to be spending quite a bit of time together, after all."

* * *

It's actually rather difficult, Greg discovers, to keep Douglas from stealing the Talisker. But he manages – being shackled to him for the duration of the flight, certainly gave him an advantage, for unlike Sherlock (or John), Douglas _can't_ pick locks. 

Carolyn unleashes them after Mr Birling stumbles drunkenly out of the aircraft and into his car to be driven home by his "terrible wife," who doesn't seem so terrible to Greg – he received fifty quid from her. The rest of the crew is looking a bit downcast, though. Greg shrugs it off and follows Martin into the portacabin to collect his gear and (hopefully) get paid by Carolyn. 

"D'you need a ride, Martin?" Greg asks, massaging his wrist. 

"Oh, I have to finish the post-flight paperwork," Martin replies with a gesture to the paper-strewn desk. "I'll get Arthur to drop me."

"Here you go, Constable," Carolyn says, handing him the cash. "One hundred pounds. And you can thank Douglas for that, too." She's positively gleaming. Douglas, on the other hand, looks pinched.

"Oh, well, thank you, erm… Douglas," Greg says. "Ta very much."

Douglas turns a shade of mauve and slams out of the portacabin while Martin starts to laugh. 

"What?" Greg asks him.

Carolyn is smirking too. 

"Oh, nothing," she trills and sashays out of the portacabin. It's a chilling sight, it really is.

"Martin?"

Martin sobers and swivels in his chair to look at Greg. His mouth is still twitching though, and damn if it's not a lovely mouth. 

_Oh, Christ, get a grip, Lestrade._

"Carolyn bet Douglas five hundred pounds that he wouldn't be able to steal the whisky. Thanks to you, she won. The money she paid you with was a portion of what she won off Douglas."

"I don't…"

"Which is the first time, ever, that Douglas has lost a bet to Carolyn," Martin continues. "Last Birling Day," he breaks off with a shudder, "it cost me a hundred quid just to get off the plane."

"Oh, because…"

"Douglas stole the Talisker."

"Huh," is all that Greg can manage. Obviously being part of a charter aviation firm is more complicated (and expensive) than he'd thought. No wonder Martin was skint all the time. 

"Oh, forget it," Martin says, throwing down his pen. "Let's get a drink to celebrate the first time Douglas lost a bet!"

"That's my lad!" Greg grins and claps him on the shoulder.

* * *

After Birling Day (even Greg's thinking of it that way), Greg finds more excuses to see Martin. Douglas comes along to their meetings at the pub every so often, and although he doesn't drink, he does throw a decent dart, and is good for a laugh or two. Martin doesn't seem to mind too much – Douglas' defeat seems to have boosted his confidence just a bit, and the three of them rub along quite nicely together. 

Arthur finally gets his ride in a police car, even, although Greg refuses to turn on the siren. 

Greg even manages to unpack his bedsit one afternoon and thinks about inviting Martin over for dinner. Or at least he will when he's actually in town and Greg has any money to spend on food other than toast and pasta and beer. 

Greg also should find it odd, although he doesn't, that nobody from London has contacted him. He's dropped John an email or two but never heard back, and Mycroft hasn't been in contact either. He doesn’t expect to hear from Donovan, not after their last conversation. But what is disturbing is how little Greg misses it. 

_A new start, then,_ he tells himself. A new lease on life. Certainly Steve's a good mate. And Martin and Douglas are all right. Even Carolyn, on the odd occasion that he sees her. He could probably afford to stop drinking so much, but as long as it doesn't interfere with the job, he tells himself, he'll be fine. 

He's finally stopped flinching every time he catches a glimpse of Martin and thinks it might be Sherlock. Because Sherlock's dead and gone now, and even though one of his friends is a Sherlock look-alike, it's all right, because Martin is anything _but_ Sherlock Holmes.

It's actually a bit of a relief.

* * *

When the call comes in, Greg is almost ready to go off duty. It's the first of the month, and his birthday, and he has decided that as a birthday present to himself (certainly nobody else noticed) he will cut down on the booze and maybe take up smoking again – it seems a fair trade.

"Domestic disturbance," Pete says, hooking the phone over his shoulder. "Lestrade, you're up."

Greg sighs and puts on his hat. Of course his day couldn't end quietly – not on his birthday – no, that would be asking too much. And really, it's been a crap day as it is. Martin on standby, it's raining (again), and a note from Ann's solicitor reminding him that he's overdue on support payments. The card from Mrs Hudson is about the only nice thing that's happened to him all day.

"Where?" Greg asks. 

"Parkside Terrace. Take WPC Sanders with you."

Sanders looks up from her magazine and winks at Greg. They have loathed each other pretty much on sight, but mostly because she said some rather nasty things about his previous employment. 

"Right," Greg says. "Here we go."

When they pull up to Parkside Terrace, Greg notices the number and realizes just whose house it is. From inside, they can hear screaming and shouting. A frightened girl lets them in, and there is the sound of breaking crockery from the kitchen downstairs.

"It's David," she half sobs. "Elaine's always saying that they're going to break up, and then this happens – he gets drunk and…" She bursts into tears as Greg hands her off to Sanders and heads to the kitchen.

The kitchen is a complete wreck – broken crockery, there's blood on the wall, and a student, Gary, – Greg's met him briefly before – is holding back another lad, who is shouting at a girl cowering against the opposite wall, bleeding freely from a gash on the cheek. Crouched next to her, trying to apply pressure to the wound, is Martin.

"Bitch!" screams the lad. "Stupid bitch, you will _pay_!"

"Calm down, mate," Gary says. "Easy, easy."

Elaine sobs and Martin helps her to her feet. Just then, David breaks free of Gary and lunges for Martin and Elaine. Martin manages to push her behind him, taking the brunt of David's attack. Elaine shrieks as David's fist meets Martin's jaw and the two of them go down. 

Greg grabs his cuffs and launches himself at David, pulling him off of Martin.

"All right, that's enough," Greg says, hauling David to his feet and planting him (with a bit more force than necessary) face first on the kitchen table, slapping the handcuffs on him. "All right – that's enough," he says again. "Sanders!" he yells upstairs. 

"Radio Terry," he says as Sanders comes into the kitchen. "Tell him to send an ambulance round and a few other officers. We've got a couple of injured here." For once, Sanders doesn't roll her eyes at him or make a comment. She takes in the scene and nods briefly before reaching for her radio. 

David's breathing heavily beneath Greg's hand, and Greg shifts a bit to press his face a bit harder into the kitchen table. Elaine is being cared for by her roommate and Gary's helping a very bleary-looking Martin. 

"All right?" Greg asks him.

Martin rubs his jaw experimentally and blinks. On his cheek, there is a darkening bruise. "Umph," he says. 

"Yeah," Greg says, "we'll get that looked at." His stomach tightens uncomfortably as Martin's eyes roll back in his head.

"Hang on, Martin," he orders him. "Hang on!"

Thundering footsteps are heard, and Terry and members of the ambulance crew pour into the kitchen, along with a few more uniformed officers who haul David away. One of the medics works on Elaine, as the other one looks to Martin.

"All right?" Greg asks again, fear flashing through him as he hurries over to where Martin is now sitting on the tile floor, blinking at the penlight the medic is shining in his eyes.

"Umph," he says again. 

"It looks like concussion, Mr Crieff," the medic says.

"'s Cap'n Crieff," Martin slurs as Greg kneels next to him.

"If you're aware enough to know that, my lad," Greg says. "I'm sure you'll be fine." There's blood on the tiles from where Martin went down and he's trying really hard not to panic, not to replay the images of Sherlock, bleeding onto the sidewalk outside of Bart's. He'd only seen the photographs, grainy from the CCTV, but oh… he didn't need to have been there to feel his heart shatter.

Martin manages to smile weakly before his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses back into Greg's arms. 

"Oops, none of that, _Captain_ ," the medic says. "Don't worry, Lestrade, he'll be fine. Couple of days rest, and he’ll be right as rain." He helps Martin rouse himself and struggles to rise. "Up we go," he says, giving Greg a wink. "Right as rain, Lestrade. Don't you worry."

Greg's left standing in the kitchen among the crockery, feeling bereft and a bit more than slightly confused.

* * *

Following that debacle, Greg doesn't see Martin at all. Mostly because Martin's been holed up in MJN's portacabin on standby, and Carolyn seems to blame _Greg_ for her pilot being hospitalized for concussion and involved with the police. 

Consequently, Greg is banned from MJN's premises. Which, if Greg weren't busy doing paperwork (at least it's not as bad as it was when he was DI), would probably have been an issue, but as it is, Greg _does_ have paperwork to do, and an uncomfortable feeling that at some point he probably should confront (he thinks) Martin.

It turns out, though, that Martin calls him. It's been another difficult one, with break-ins and muggings and more domestic violence, and Greg's finally made it back to his bedsit with a curry congealing in its carrier and a bottle of whisky. 

He shouldn’t be drinking, he knows, but the thoughts and memories are skittering around in his head again, and he knows that if he doesn't do _something_ , he may just end up… he doesn't know – shooting the walls or something. 

The thought makes him cringe, bile welling up in his throat. 

_Sherlock_.

Fuck it, he thinks, it's just too much. He throws the carrier bag into the sink where it crashes against the mess piled in there – crockery shatters, and he collapses into the kitchen chair with the whisky bottle. 

Two hours later, he dimly hears the telephone and decides to ignore it. The answerphone clicks on.

"Greg, it's… it's Martin. Can you pick up? I'm… look, I'm sorry to bother you, but all that rain? It's erm… my attic's a bit flooded and… Oh, I suppose you're not home…" the machine clicks off and Greg sits up with a start. 

It's the work of moments to find his shoes and then tie them. His car's out – too much whisky – so he'll have to walk over to Parkside Terrace, or rather run, because it's really, _really_ bucketing down rain. 

He doesn't stop running until he reaches the bottom of the hill and the Man With No Head, where Greg pauses for breath and considers his options. 

Martin's probably decided to kip on the sofa in the sitting room, most likely with earplugs, and hope for the best. Or he's camped out in the portacabin. 

Fuck. Greg shakes his head. What an idiot he is. Running halfway across Fitton, not for an emergency, but because he's drunk and a friend, one of his only friends, called him _and left a message_.

Christ. What a fool. Martin's an adult; he can handle himself. Just because his attic's a bit flooded is no reason for Greg to chase after him like some sort of concerned – no, be honest, lovesick – boyfriend.

Oh. Oh Shit. No. He is not doing this. He is not falling in love with somebody just because they're friendly to him, and he's lonely, and drunk, and…

A car sloshes by in the street, dousing Greg up to his knees. 

"Bugger," Greg mutters, the icy splash of water jerking him from his thoughts. He sighs and turns around to make the trek back to his bedsit, which may smell of old curry and booze and socks, but is at least dry. 

"Greg!" A voice calls out. A familiar voice. 

"Greg!" Martin calls. He's running downhill toward him, slipping and sliding on the wet pavement.

"Martin, what are you…"

Martin skids to a stop. "I thought you might come by," he says. "And then, I thought, oh well, maybe not, and then I realized that you'd probably not got my message, and then I thought…"

"No," Greg says. "It's fine, it's all…" They're standing much too close together. Greg's still reeling from the alcohol and the run, Martin's panting from his slide down the hill, and all Greg can think to do is lean forward just a little bit more. Martin's lips are plump and a bit chapped, teeth marks on the bottom lip – a lifetime's habit of chewing nervously on them. 

Martin's breath hitches, and he steps forward. 

He tastes of stale tea, and God knows what Greg's breath is like, but Martin's lips are warm and soft and, yes, a bit chapped, and Greg's almost forgotten what it's like to kiss a man: the rub of stubble, the hardness of the lips, the scent that is definitely _male_.

"Greg," Martin gasps, backing away.

"Oh, oh, God… sorry," Greg splutters. "I didn't…"

"No, it's… I'm getting a bit… it's not that I didn't like it, I did, but I hadn't thought with you… well, I like you, and I liked that, and I didn't think I would like you… erm, that, or rather I would like you like… like that, and I'm not g-g-g… but maybe I am, and I'm just getting awfully wet, and I don't think…"

Greg pulls Martin to him. Kisses him on the forehead. God, he's drunk, he's so bloody drunk, he barely knows what he's doing when he wraps his arms around the boy and drags him down the street. Thank God, a cab pulls up at that point, because Greg's fairly sure his legs are about to give out. 

Martin's giggling and shoving at Greg as they fall into the taxi. 

"You okay with this?" Greg asks, looking up at Martin, who's sprawled across him in the back seat.

Martin's eyes are luminous, and Greg catches his breath as the world shifts underneath him and Sherlock's eyes are staring at him, staring through him.

"Yeah… I think… yeah," Martin whispers, and it's Sherlock's voice, husky and dark. 

The cab jerks away from the curb and Martin is thrown back against the door. He starts to laugh and Greg can't help but join in.

* * *

Greg wakes the next afternoon with an outsized hangover. That, in and of itself, isn't surprising, but what is – what is absolutely fucking terrifying – is that he wakes up with his arms around Sherlock, who has apparently dyed his hair ginger and developed a starburst of freckles on his bare back. 

Bare back.

Sherlock. 

The mattress tilts and Greg thinks he might be sick. 

The wave of nausea passes and Greg's body, completely contrary to what his mind thinks, apparently, cuddles closer to Sherlock, who grunts and presses his face into the mattress. 

"Gerroff," Sherlock mutters, and the room starts to spin again because _that's not Sherlock_.

Martin. Oh, God. Oh, God what did he do?

Greg runs through his mental checklist. God knew there were few enough times in his life where he'd woken up with somebody else and had no real clue how they'd managed to get there, but still, it was not completely unfamiliar. So, socks. No. Not a tragedy, but moving on. Jogging bottoms, check. Pants, check. Shirt… ah, this is where it gets tricky. Greg has no shirt. 

Neither does Martin, but a discreet fumble tells Greg that Martin is at least, like him, clad below the waist. 

Continuing on, there are no traces of stickiness or soreness outside of the pounding headache, so that is a good thing, Greg decides. Beside him, Martin stirs.

"G'morning," Greg manages to croak before his stomach lurches again and he begins to sweat. "Oh, God…"

Before he can excuse himself, he's fallen out of bed and is racing to the bathroom where he manages _just_ to empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet. In passing, his brain also notes that it has been several weeks since he has cleaned said toilet, and if he's going to have Martin over more, if Martin's even going to want to speak to him after last night, he should be more diligent regarding housekeeping. 

He groans and leans back against the tile as he hears the shuffling of feet and the pause outside the door. 

"All right?" Martin asks. Greg closes his eyes and groans again.

"Yeah, had a bit too much to drink last night 's all. You all right?" he asks.

"Yeah." Greg peels his eyes open to see Martin, shirtless, hair tousled, biting his lip as he lingers in the doorway. "God, you must think I'm an awful…"

"No! No, I don't think that, I mean… You were drunk and I wanted to make sure you got home, and then we kissed and…"

Greg rubs a hand across his brow.

"Did I… did we?"

Martin blushes, and damn, if it's not one of the sexier things Greg's seen in his life – even with a monstrous hangover. He's wearing his jeans from last night, and no shirt, and there's a hint of his pants showing above his waistline. 

"Oh, no! God, no. Nothing like that, you were pretty out of it, and so I decided – that is, we decided – to wait, actually you said that I shouldn't wait for you, that you were too old and damaged, at least that's what I think you said, and that I deserved better than you and that you'd just damage me anyway, because it'd been so long, and at that point I had managed to get you changed a bit and into bed, and I fell on top of you and we kissed some more, and I really liked that part. And I really, really, really like you, Greg, and so when you stopped, I… well, you said something strange, but you were drunk, so I guess… Oh, God, I sound like Arthur…"

Martin trails off in horror and Greg chuckles and immediately regrets it as his stomach heaves again. 

When the bout passes he looks up and Martin's there, only this time with a glass of water.

"Drink," he says. "The students do this sometimes, and since I'm the only grownup…"

"Oh, God." Greg wishes now that the floor would just open up and swallow him. 

"It's okay," Martin says with a grin. "Douglas says _in vino veritas_. That's Latin, I think. It means in wine there is truth, and I think that's why Douglas doesn't drink anymore, because he'd blurt out the truth."

Greg sips the water and manages to grin weakly. 

"What did I say?"

"Well," Martin says, squatting beside Greg in his filthy bathroom of his filthy flat. "You called me Sherlock, and you ran your thumbs over my cheekbones and held me until you fell asleep. And then I managed to get out from beside you, take off my shirt, towel off a bit, and by that point, well, I was so tired that I just lay down next to you."

"… and that's where I woke up," Greg finishes. "God, what you must think of me…"

Martin smiles and pats Greg a bit awkwardly on the shoulder. 

"I think…" he says quietly. "I think you need a shower, actually."

Greg can't help but chuckle and then groan as his headache makes itself known again. 

"You're my friend, Greg," Martin says. "One of the only friends I have, if you don't count Douglas and Carolyn and," Martin shudders, "Arthur. I like you – and I may not be, well, totally _gay_ , but I do like you, erm… like that, and, and you're my friend, and friends take care of each other. Like you did when David…"

"That was my _job_ ," Greg objects. 

"No, well, yes, but you did what you did, I think because… well, did you do it because I was there?" Martin asks. He looks vulnerable in the glare of the florescent light, and Greg wonders for a minute who is supposed to be taking care of whom here.

"Yeah," he says finally. "I did. And…"

"And you ran across Fitton last night," Martin says. "Drunk and in the rain. That's got to count for something."

Greg smiles.

"See? Erm, there you go. Now, into the shower with you," Martin says, taking on the tone of an airline pilot, Greg thinks – if only because he has Greg to deal with and not the superior Douglas Richardson. "D'you have any tea?"

"Yeah," Greg says, staggering to his feet with Martin's help. "I think so."

"I'll find it," Martin says as Greg starts the water. 

"Coffee would be better," Greg calls. 

The shower goes a long way to soothing him, cleaning him, and while it doesn't erase the hangover completely, it does ease it. 

Martin's waiting in what passes for a sitting room when Greg finally emerges, wrapped in a tatty dressing gown, hair still damp and sticking up in all directions. 

There's coffee, and Greg notices with a start that there are four bin bags, stuffed to the gills beside the door to the flat. 

"I hope you don't mind," Martin says. "I… the smell of the curry was kind of… overpowering."

Greg accepts the coffee in a bit of a daze and gazes around. The socks are gone – tossed, he supposes, in the laundry bag in his wardrobe; the shoes, neatly lined up by the door. His ratty mac hangs neatly on the peg, and the kitchen – well, the coffee mugs and plates have been collected and stacked neatly in the sink. 

"Sorry," Martin says. "I… didn't mean to overstep my bounds or anything, but the students sometimes leave messes like this, and while I try not to clean up after them all the time, sometimes, I just…"

"No," Greg says. "I… I'm sorry you had to see the place like this. Thank you."

Martin smiles, and it's like his entire face lights up. 

"You all right?" he asks. 

"Yeah," Greg replies. 

They sit in silence for a bit and then: "I'm not… I don't know who Sherlock is," Martin says, staring at the floor. "But he must have meant a lot to you."

"Yeah," Greg replies quietly. "He… he was something… totally unlike…"

"Greg," Martin asks. "This probably isn't the time to bring this up, but did you kiss me because you love Sherlock?"

Greg stares at Martin. His cheeks are flaming and he's biting his lip again, knuckles tight around the coffee mug. Greg feels as if he's been hit in the solar plexus. Martin looks so young, so vulnerable. 

"Maybe," Greg says. "Maybe at one point I wanted to, because… God, you could be his brother. And yeah, maybe at one point I was in love with him – he's – he was – a madman, but a great man, and I wanted so badly for him to be a good one, but last night, Martin… I swear to you, and over these last few months, it's _you_. You may look like him, but Christ, you are nothing like him at all, and thank fuck for that, because I don't know how John put up with him, I really don't. I mean… I worked with him for five years, slept with him for three months once, and…"

Martin's head jerks up. 

"But," Greg hurries on, sliding out of his chair and kneeling at Martin's feet. He slides his hand against Martin's cheek and feels the tangle of hair in his fingers, the flush of skin against his palm. "But it's _you_ , Captain Martin Crieff, that I want to kiss right now."

"Erm… oh," is all Martin can say as Greg leans in and kisses him.

It's nothing like last night – it's now the slide of lips and the flicker of Greg's tongue as he traces the seam of Martin's lips. Martin opens his mouth and it's perfect – he's not inexperienced, Greg can tell that – the flicker of his tongue, the gentle pressure of his mouth against Greg's.

"It's okay," Greg whispers against Martin's mouth. "You won't hurt me." And he dives in for another kiss, this one more assertive than the first, but still tender as the slide of coffee flavored tongue and teeth fills Greg's consciousness. It's perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. 

He doesn't care that his head's still pounding.

He doesn't care that his knees hurt like hell. 

He doesn't care that his bedsit still stinks of curry and socks. 

He doesn't care that he's just Police Constable Lestrade of Fitton. 

He cares about the fact that Martin Crieff is kissing him, and he's kissing Martin back, suckling on his lower lip and soothing the bite with his tongue, tangling his fingers in Martin's hair as Martin pulls Greg closer. 

All Greg cares about is the warmth and the slip-slide of Martin's mouth against his. 

When they finally break apart, Martin's eyes are luminous again – like they were in the cab the night before – and Greg catches his breath.

"All right?" Greg asks. He realizes that he's still holding on to Martin's head and that Martin still has his arms wrapped around him. 

Martin smiles, damp lips parting, as his countenance blossoms. 

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah."

* * *

Fitton, still. Two Months Later

It's not the end, of course. Greg grins as he walks down the street. Happily ever after doesn't happen to him. But this is as close as he's going to get, he thinks, as he springs up the stairs, two by two, to his new flat.

From inside, he can hear the sound of the radio and a warbling tenor singing along and smell the scent of frying onions. His grin breaks into a smile – Martin's home early. 

Well, when he says _home_ … Martin still maintains his room in his horrible attic at Parkside Terrace, although he's spending more and more time at Greg's. 

They haven't gone beyond serious snogging, yet, not gone all the way, to use the parlance of youth, but Greg's sure that they will soon. And he can wait. Because Martin's worth the wait, he thinks, and he has plans for him. 

He needs instruction, after all those years of being holed up inside his closet. And who better to instruct him in the more manly arts of loving than Greg?

Greg chuckles as he opens the door. If he's getting soft in his old age – and if Martin's not too put off by it (and he doesn't seem to be, all things considered – much to Greg's shock), things might actually be, for the first time in – God, a year? Seven? – looking up. 

"Greg!" Martin calls from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

Greg can't help but smile as he enters the kitchen and wraps his arms around Martin. Martin turns in surprise, and Greg kisses him, a warm and tender welcome with _just_ enough passion to make Martin melt against him. 

Definitely looking up.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Bluey, Maz, Annie, and PJ made this possible.


End file.
